


As Though Nothing Could Fall

by AndromedaPrime



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Optimus lives, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Post-War, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 06:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndromedaPrime/pseuds/AndromedaPrime
Summary: In the ruins of Kaon, a war-weary warlord finds his old nemesis, and in turn finds his old love.





	As Though Nothing Could Fall

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've written something for Megatron/Optimus. Upon listening to the Gang of Youth's cover of "Heroes" in one of the final _Justice League_ trailers, I read the lyrics to the original Bowie version and found more inspiration in the story of lovers being kept apart.
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy my offering, and thank you for reading.

He was very relieved to see that Kaon still stood against the ravages of time and war.

Angling himself, the old and battle-worn mech took on his bipedal mode and landed at the entrance of the mines he used to labor in, looking down and wondering for a moment how many dead were laid there, so unimportant that no burial was required. Who would mourn a nameless miner in Kaon?

In another life, he would still be down there. Now, here he was, basking in the dusk of Cybertron’s sun. It was something he thought he wouldn’t live to see, no matter how much he wanted to believe that Cybertron would be whole again.

He mourned for his fellow Decepticons that never would get to see their homeworld revitalized once more. 

Could he call them Decepticons? He had relieved himself of the reins he held onto for so long. There was part of him that chastised himself for doing so. But the Decepticons were finished, and he’d been foolish to try and hold onto a title that no longer held any meaning. 

Cybertron was reborn. There was little way he could move the story around to fit his claim that he had been the driving force behind it. Yes, he’d tasked Shockwave with constructing the imitation Omega Lock, but the point was made moot with the abduction of and dubious agreement of the Autobot medic to assist in their endeavour.

He’d overseen most of the work, only for it to be ripped out from underneath his pedes. It was unfortunately something he could draw a parallel to in the annals of history - his sparking a movement that would soon give birth to a revolution, just for the little data clerk he’d taken under his wing as both mentee and lover to claim the title of Prime.

The deepest reaches of his processor told him that it wasn’t little Orion Pax’s fault. He’d never asked for it, and even now he could see how the weight of being Prime not because he’d wanted to, but because he  _ had to, _ had aged the Iaconian.

But Megatron was nothing if not a stubborn mech, and the more forefront parts of his psyche held firmly onto the grudge he’d carried for millennia by now. Letting go of it made his frame feel lighter, something that he frankly wasn’t quite used to anymore.

It had been such a long time since he’d traversed these lands, but he’d walked them enough in his youth that he’d been able to stay in his fugue state and find himself knowing where the ghosts of his past could still be found. He drew close to the old Pits that had been his haunting and fighting grounds, and in his mind’s optic he could see the crowds streaming into the coliseum seats, the air afire with anticipation before any gladiatorial match. Megatron could remember being in the rooms below ground, listening to the bouts before his own, hearing the audience’s excitement.

Only one of the three major entrances that bots streamed through in those days was still intact; the other two had caved in at some point in time. He wanted to, wondered about stepping down through one of the secret entrances that opened in the ground and led to the gladiatorial chambers, but thought better of it. If the stone-built arches had collapsed and rendered two entrances impassable, it was possible that the underground chambers had met the same fate.

Bracing himself for whatever could be around the corner, the old warlord reopened his optics and took some of the hardest steps in his life cycle thus far.

The Pit was illuminated by the rays of Cybertron’s setting sun, and the arena was deafening in another manner. Where there had once been the roar of crowds so loud that it made his entire frame rattle, the silence was haunting and echoing. Surrounding the Pit, the stands still stood, mostly intact and quite dusty. Parts of the stands on the higher levels were crumbling, but the entire first and second rows seemed to be unscathed.

Something glinted in the receding light.

The old warlord almost didn’t believe the faded sunlight, nor his optics, when the glint turned into sight of a hulking red and blue frame, seated in a section of the stands that used to thunder under the roars and stamping pedes of thousands of bots. A helm with elegant blue antennae and silver faceplates that had borne the brunt of the universe and survived looked at a point away from him.

Megatron followed the line of sight, and his optics met the sun.

It was silent for a few moments.

“In hindsight,” the voice that had been part of both his dreams and his nightmares for millenia spoke, shattering the stillness in the arena, “I should have expected you to show up here.”

Out of instinct, or out of the fledgling bits of righteous rage that he still held in his spark, Megatron unsheathed his blade. Taking purposeful, heavy strides, and squaring his shoulder struts, he bared his dentae. “You have no history here. The Pits have no importance to you. Why are you disgracing these grounds with your presence?”

In that moment Optimus Prime finally turned his helm, his optics as luminous and brilliant as ever, and in them for a nanoklik Megatron saw the data clerk that had so stolen his spark. “This was where we met for the first time, Megatron,” Optimus said quietly. “Don’t tell me that our war has made you forget your history.”

Bristling at the insulting, the old warlord bared his dentae and held the blade to the Prime’s throat cabling, a small part of him almost unnerved by how cooly Optimus’s gazed at his sword, as if it weren’t capable of cleaving one’s helm right off. “Don’t ever accuse me of forgetting my history, when  _ you  _ were the one that abandoned our cause for a better Cybertron.”

A cable attached to the Prime’s jawline twitched, and Megatron picked up the straightening of Optimus’s lipplates, making his displeasure with the situation obvious. “I abandoned nothing. The Autobots sought a better Cybertron, just as the Decepticons did. But we were not the ones that engaged in terrorist activity. We were not the ones that killed for the sport of it, chasing a thrill. We killed if we  _ had _ to, and we kept to such a mantra even until the final cycles.”

“You betrayed me, Orion Pax. You betrayed the cause you professed to believe in!” Megatron raised his voice and contemplated withdrawing the blade, but when Optimus got to his pedes and was suddenly taller than he was, the old mech blinked and took a step back.

“I fought for the same cause that you initially did - a better and free Cybertron.”

“From your place in the Hall. I had to work my way up from the Pits, maim and  _ kill  _ to make my voice heard! And then you,” Megatron snarled, “had the title and the Matrix handed to you, as you did your comfortable life before you became Prime.”

Optimus’s optics blazed hot and the Prime squared himself up, making himself seem much bigger than he already was. 

“Contrary to your life, I admit that I was in a much physically safer environment. I was drawn to you because you gave name to the disatisfaction and discomfort that our society made me feel. But we all, save for a very select few, had our lives dictated to us. We all suffered under the caste system, with no hope of upward mobility, no hope of a better life.”

“You didn’t experience what I did, Pax,” Megatron spat, his voice a low growl, taking some sick pleasure in the way Optimus’s lipplates twitched at the mention of his old name. “You never had to see your brethren struck down until you saw war. I saw it, before the revolution was born.”

“No, I did not. I have made that clear, and if you wish to cling to the differing routes our lives began with, then that is your prerogative. In the end, Megatron, we both killed our world, and we brought it back. No matter how you decide to paint the picture, we are both criminals.” 

The last four words gave the old warlord some pause as they echoed in his processor. He kept his glare on the Prime and moved his blade away from Optimus’s throat.

“Do you intend to paint yourself as such when we are no longer alone on this planet?” Megatron inquired after another period of silence.

Optimus looked at him with a mixture of exhaustion and resignation on his faceplates that, Megatron hated to admit, put a barely noticeable dent in the storm in the recesses of his spark. “I don't profess to know what will happen to us once the masses converge upon Cybertron and the AllSpark begins to repopulate our planet once more. However, what I do know now is that I am done fighting with you.”

Megatron's optics widened, spark stalling for the briefest nanoklik as he watched Optimus Prime throw the automatic weapon hoisted to his backplates onto the dirt below, the dust rising and settling between them. He looked up and his optics met the Prime’s, blue suns, glowing with fortitude.

“If you came here to kill me, if that is your end goal after all we have gone through,” Optimus’s optics dimmed in luminosity, only a touch brighter than the brightest star over their helms, “then be done with it.” His regal helm lifted into the air just a micrometer, but enough for the silver-plated mech to notice.

Both mechs stared at one another, red gaze meeting blue optics full of exhaustion, resignation, and what looked like relief mixed into the concoction. 

There was the rage-filled part of his mind that told Megatron to lift his blade once more, either cleave the Prime’s helm from his shoulder struts or drive it through the life force pulsing behind the broad chassis plates that protected it. 

Maybe, just maybe, he could finally receive the Matrix of Leadership and hold it in his servos.

Then Megatron did something he’d rarely done before, and had done perhaps only once where the Prime was concerned. He drew the blade back into his arm and powered down the cannon attached to it, removing it from its holster and dropping it on the ground next to Optimus’s weapon.

When he looked up and met Optimus’s gaze, he saw how the Prime’s faceplates were drawn into an expression of surprise. 

“If we are to kill each other, it would be in battle. But the war is no more.” Megatron closed his right servo into a fist. “I would have killed you to end it and to take what was mine.”

_ But now it is all lost and for naught. _

Optimus gazed at him, and Megatron felt the old stirrings in his spark, whereupon he would normally have taken the small data clerk’s helm into his servos and kissed him. Instead, Megatron sank onto the seat in front of where Optimus had been. “I am tired.”

With that, Megatron turned his back to Optimus. If the Prime changed his processor, decided to end him there, then so be it. Deep in his spark, Megatron found himself wanting it. He lifted his optics to the sky, which had turned into a thin layer of orange and pink over the horizon, with a deep violet and navy expanse above them.

The stands quaked ever so slightly as the Prime descended the one step and sat next to an old warlord, an even older friend in another life. Out of the corner of his optics, Megatron saw the red-armored mech’s digits on his right servo twitch, as if wanting to reach out and touch him, and was a little bit disappointed to see that Optimus kept it still.

Both looked out over the large expanse of the arena, and from this viewpoint Megatron could pinpoint where some of the more memorable of his opponents had fallen.

“Do you remember the first time you trekked from Iacon to view one of my matches?”

A serene, faraway look came over the Prime’s aged, scratched faceplates, and Megatron turned his helm and watched with rapt interest as Optimus lifted his gaze to the emerging stars. “I do. I remember it was on an evening much like this.”

Megatron smiled at the memory. “After the match, I told you that Kaon had not had such a clear view of the stars for our matches in the Pit in decacycles. I thought that this was a positive sign for us. For the revolution.”

Optimus turned his optics to look at Megatron, his blue optics tired and haggard, old, just like the war and just like Megatron. “And I recall you telling me so. I thought so too.”

Both mechs sat in silence, their internal mechanisms working as they always did the only noise they could hear in the remnants of the arena. It was a far, far cry from the cheers and screams of his name that Megatron used to hear, and when he closed his optics he could still see the crowd, the walls of the arena still standing, his opponents face-down in the dirt while he urged the audience to scream his designation and their praises.

And when he reopened his optics, he saw a desolate world. Next to him, half of the force that had destroyed it. Him, the other half.

“I like to think that this arena might be saved, in some way or form. This is, after all, the birthplace of the revolution that forever changed our planet.”

“The birthplace of the revolution that, while a majority factor in the events that have transpired recently, also destroyed our planet,” Optimus said flatly. After a moment’s pause, he continued. “It will not be up to you or I what will happen to the Pits of Kaon. This could be the last time we might be allowed here.”

A flicker of anger birthed itself anew in Megatron’s spark, but he simply grit his dentae. “I will petition.”

“And I will not stop you. You may do as you please, for we are now simply mechs among mechs. No longer…” Optimus trailed off for a nanoklik before resuming, “no longer are we, as you put it once, gods wielding the power of the cosmos.” Another nanoklik of silence. Then, “The Matrix of Leadership is no more.”

Megatron was slightly stunned at the admission. Optimus continued, “It was gifted back to the core with the essence of the AllSpark contained within. Just as you no longer harbor Unicron within you, I no longer harbor Primus, nor am I Prime.” 

Battle-worn, broken mechs sitting in the remnants of an old arena, their weapons cast aside like old, no longer favored, sparkling playthings. Megatron looked over at Optimus again, and saw how both he and the weary-faced Prime had the same slumped posture.

Indeed they were no longer gods. 

All they were, were toys at the whim of the universe.

Megatron watched the Prime intently, taking note of the face that had stared down eternal deities and monsters, weathered storms longer than the birth and existence of races, outlived the rise and fall of civilizations. A face that had once been small, untainted, perfectly held in his large and broken servos.

A face that once had looked at him, with blue optics bright and full of inquisitivity, hunger for knowledge, and love. 

There was a faint brushing motion against the metal of his servo that startled him momentarily. When the old despot looked down, he saw the blunted, dark grey digits brushing against his sharp-tipped silver ones, much like the way he and Orion Pax had communicated their affection for one another when around others, not so open about their relationship.

He moved his servo so it covered Optimus’s, rubbing his thumb along the backside of the Autobot’s hand, and looked up to meet the old, former Prime’s gaze.

The both of them stared into one another’s optics, and Megatron was surprised at how well he could still read Optimus, and Optimus him, after these many eons apart. The Prime clearly communicated what he wanted, but his expression also asked him if he would agree and want it back.

In response, Megatron moved his servo away from Optimus’s and raised both of them to take Optimus’s helm into his hands, moving forward slightly and pausing as he meant to give Optimus an out if he decided he didn’t want it.

Blue optics brightened, and the red-armored mech gave a minute nod.

.-.-.

He met Megatron’s lipplates with a hunger he hadn’t known was there until its relief had come, closing his optics and leaning into the kiss with the same fervor his younger self had. He moaned quietly as Megatron’s glossa pressed against his dentae, opening his mouth just enough to let him in.

They kissed and kissed, neither of them particularly keen to cease and pull away from one another, claim it was a mistake. Optimus raised a servo and touched the nearest shoulder strut, smoothing his digits along the surface before trekking them towards Megatron’s neck cables. He didn’t miss how the old despot twitched and tensed for a second.

“I will not hurt you unless you ask for it,” the Prime murmured against Megatron’s mouth, kissing the mech further. “I promise you.”

Megatron paused, nodding once, and then he gripped Optimus by the seams of armor placed on his sides. The former Prime grunted in surprise and while there was no wall to be pressed up against for a ravishing, there was the dirt of the arena. He settled in where Megatron laid him, smiling softly as the old Decepticon hovered over him with a hunger of equal intensity in his vermillion eyes.

Optimus parted his legs and gently coaxed Megatron to settle between his thighs, stroking his digits against the silver mech’s interface panel. He smirked at the momentary hitch of the warlord's intakes, and then mere moments later the sound of the interfacing panel opening echoed between them, and a ridged spike slipped into Optimus’s palm.

When he wrapped his digits around it, Megatron moaned quietly and rolled his hips into the touch. Optimus used his other servo to stroke the old warlord’s helm, smoothing his digits over them. The other mech made a noise, a rumble that emanated from deep within his chassis, and tucked his helm into the Prime’s neck cables, huffing with each stroke and playful tug of his spike. 

For what felt to be a while, both of them stayed there, Megatron between the Prime’s legs, nimble digits on his spike, the sound of their systems working to keep their internal core temperatures at a steady level. Optimus did his best to quell the fierce need and want surging through his own systems, telling himself to hold back and focus on the task at and in servo.

“You,” Megatron’s voice cut through the silence, low and rumbling, his hips pressing against Optimus’s servos in a plea for more, “are planning to kill me like this, aren’t you?”

In response, Optimus gave the warlord a light peck on his audio receptor. “There would be no fun in that.”

Megatron growled lowly as Optimus sped up the intensity of the stroking, the light tugs driving him off rails, beads of transfluid peeping out of the tip smearing as Optimus swirled his thumb over the slit. He watched Megatron’s faceplates contort and strain, taking some pleasure in his ability to still make the old harbinger of death come undone.

“Optimus,” Megatron quietly hissed his name, thrusting his hips against Optimus’s hand before stopping. The red mech was briefly startled and made a noise of disappointment before Megatron withdrew. “Not yet,” Megatron rasped out. An insistent servo pressed against his interfacing panel, silently yet loudly demanding access.

The Prime relented, releasing the locks and allowing the panel to shift aside, baring himself to the warlord. Optimus moaned as the warlord’s sharp-tipped digits moved at the apex of his thighs, fingers pressing against the slowly-lubricating folds of his valve, pointed fingers catching on and stimulating the outer nodes. Little electric shocks shot up Optimus’s pelvic array and up his spinal strut, making his thighs shake.

“It has been a long time,” Megatron said, voice husky as he dipped his digits further into the folds of the Prime’s valve, withdrawing them. Optimus could feel the strings of lubricant following, connecting servo and his interface array. He grunted and arched his hips slightly, then was startled as Megatron bent and shoved his legs up to his chassis as he pressed forward. Optimus arched his neck and hips, the volume of his moan increasing the further the old despot’s blasted spike pressed into his very wet and swollen valve. “Do you remember,” Optimus said with an almost breathless voice, rasping, his optics dimmed to a dark blue, “our first time?”

The memory of his back pressed against a hard wall, his legs wrapped around the then-gladiator’s waist and meeting the frenzied, needy thrusts flooded his memory banks. Quite suddenly, Megatronus had reached his climax, and in the haze they’d both lost their grips on one another and the towering gladiator had fallen onto the small data clerk.

Clearly the same memory conjured itself into the warlord’s processor, as both of them lapsed into throaty chuckles. “To this cycle I regret hurting you.”

“It was nothing if not pleasurable,” Optimus smirked, one corner of his lipplates twitching up humorously. “I hadn’t had a lover ‘til then that was able to make me ache in more ways than one.”

Megatron chuckled again and leaned forward, pressing his lipplates to the Prime’s again, thrusting against spasming calipers and sparking nodes, trying to get as deep as he could. Optimus appreciated the endeavour, for it had been so long since he’d been taken, the war having been a priority to personal indulgences. Wrapping his arms around the old despot and meeting his thrusts, gasping, their moans and groans became a beautiful cacophony in the ancient quiet of the Pits of Kaon, giving life to something that had seen a dearth of it for many eons. 

Megatron quite aggressively pressed his glossa against Optimus’s lipplates again, pressing and pleading for admittance, and the growls that the old warlord produced from his vocalizer sent vibrations through the former Prime’s frame. Optimus brought the ring of his arms up to Megatron’s helm, holding the silver mech close as he felt one of the sharp servos leave his side and maneuver between their frames, brushing down the length of his abdominal plating and then-

“Oh,” Optimus gave a quiet gasp, intakes hitching in surprise as the Decepticon rubbed a digit over his swollen and charged anterior node, circling it as he teased him. “You slagger, you know very well how to get to me,” he said, smile on his faceplate, loosening his grip on Megatron’s helm.

The other mech looked at him with an almost-deadpan expression, arching optic ridges. “If this is getting to you, as you put it,” he slipped a finger into the Prime’s plump valve, and Optimus’s intakes hitched again as he saw additional stars in his visual field, “then I wonder what our previous chemistry was.”

“Simple,” Optimus replied when he was able to blink the stars out of his vision and focus the parts of his processor that were still cognizant on Megatron. “Simple foreplay.”

Megatron smirked, the light of Optimus’s optics reflecting off of his sharp dentae. He leaned forward again, this time kissing the side of Optimus’s helm and gently dragging his teeth over an antennae as he resumed his frenetic thrusts.

The ache would grow and be present for a long while, but Optimus couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the spike he’d missed for so long was thrusting in and out of him, servos that held onto him with tenderness were circling his pelvic array to try and intensify the overload that waited and waited.

And the wait ceased as Megatron gripped him tightly and roared in overloaded, transfluid that was somehow both hot and cool simultaneously surging into his valve, making him feel full in a way he’d longed for since the dawn of the war. The old Prime gasped, his arms going lax for a moment as he moved them away from Megatron and threw them over his helm onto the ground, his arms bending at the elbow and servos curling into fists as he arched his back.

Through the overload, the old despot continued for a few more thrusts, drawing out their shared climax before shuddering and collapsing onto Optimus’s frame. Dust rose and then settled around and on them, disturbed by their movement. 

The Prime stared at the dark sky, the stars that slowly twinkled down at the both of them as he came down from a high he’d tried to chase before and failed. His cables and frame ached beautifully, the scratches on his armor nothing to worry about. He would be feeling this for quite a while yet.

He raised his helm slightly and then his upper half, looking at Megatron when the mech got his bearings and slipped off of him, sitting next to him.

Both stared at one another, red and blue gazes intense.

“When you said you were tired,” Optimus asked quietly, reaching out for Megatron’s servo again, his spark lifting a little bit when the warlord lifted his own servo and grabbed his in turn, “were you being truthful?”

Megatron’s gaze softened, and he gave a nod. After a pause, Optimus smiled, and then looked at the stars once more.

With war off the table, with a world restored, all that that a former Prime and an old warlord could do was gaze at the sky, miniscule gods at the mercy of the universe.

But they could resume what once was, if just for one night.


End file.
